


i give thee the ocean, stormy or tranquil

by betony



Category: Crown Duel - Sherwood Smith
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:19:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tamara's relationship with Russav Savona has never been easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i give thee the ocean, stormy or tranquil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [osprey_archer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/gifts).



> _Why this gift, o pilgrim, my pilgrim?_   
> _Why this this cup of water for me?_
> 
>  
> 
> _I give thee the ocean, stormy or tranquil,_  
>  _Endless and boundless as my love for thee..._    
> \--Crown Duel, Firebird Books, 2002, p. 411

Tamara remembers: 

She is eight years old, and shivering in the gardens. Her rose-colored winter cloak is pretty, like most of the things her mother buys, but the material is thin and does nothing to keep away the biting wind. They can’t spare the money to buy another until spring. Even that is uncertain; six weeks ago her mother came to see her for the first time in months and, after one bored glance, only said: “Well, there’s no sense in trying to turn you into a beauty, I see.” 

It wouldn’t be so bad, if she had only been alone. Unfortunately she is not. There’s very little that escapes Fialma Merindar’s notice, and so it’s little surprise that before Tamara quite realizes what’s happening, a snowball fight has broken out around her, and Fialma in particular aims more than her fair share of snowballs in Tamara’s direction. 

Her cloak is sodden, and in a few minutes it would be ruined—and just then, a boy, taller and broader and only a few years older, stands between them. The last of the snowballs bounces off his chest. 

The Duke of Savona yawns pointedly. “That was great fun, Fialma,” he says. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to win my weekly pin-money off my cousin. Who wants to watch me do it?” Half the children already outside follow; nearly all the snowballs brandished fall back to the ground. 

Tamara follows Savona down the path. “I didn’t need your help,” she says heatedly. She knows who the Duke of Savona is—who doesn’t?—but she’s never said so many words to him together before. Now everything is different. He’s ruined everything, and made her look a pathetic fool besides. 

Savona looks at her incredulously. “I wasn’t trying to help,” he protests, so weakly it offends her all the more more. “I was only trying to get Fialma to do something—anything—more interesting.” 

“I _didn’t_ need your help!” she snaps again, and before he can quite register what’s happened, she’s storming away into the warmth of the palace. 

On this auspicious note, their romance begins. 

* * *

Over the next few years, she’s happy merely to torment him. At first it’s because she still hasn’t forgiven him his interference, and later because it’s simply become the easiest way for them to interact with each other. 

She likes to tease him, particularly when he struts around as though he really is the finest thing to ever grace Athanarel. If anyone could do with having his ego deflated, it's Russav Savona. He retaliates, too, coming up with new and outrageous nicknames that he spreads among their friends. Best of all she likes their arguments, likes the way his voice breaks with real emotion and less sarcasm once she pushes him far enough. 

That’s when he notices her, after all. The rest of the time, he’s too busy talking and laughing with his cousin Vidanric. 

Tamara is used to being ignored; her mother hardly pays attention to her, her father never noticed her even when he was alive, and her grandmother only noticed her to bark orders and complaints at her. 

She’s just not used to it mattering quite so much before. 

* * *

Her mother grunts and says, “You’ll have to marry rich.” She was beautiful once, while in her prime. Now she has grown thin and sallow, and Tamara looks at her only to shudder at what she might one day become. “Our coffers can provide for your wedding gown and not much else, and unless you want to with the likes of the Argaliars, I would find myself a handsome swain soon, were I you.” 

Tamara sets down her mug of chocolate, eyes studiously fixed on the table. “Savona is a wealthy enough duchy,” she observes, seemingly apropos of nothing. 

Her mother cackles. “Russav Savona is too handsome and too rich to settle for you, girl, not when he could have Ioret Toarvendar, who’s prettier, or Renna Khialem, who’s wealthier, with a snap of his fingers. Set your sights on a more reasonable target, and don't waste your time on a bird that'll never come to your hand.” 

Tamara presses her lips together and says nothing. 

The next day she seeks out Savona intentionally, waits until they’re alone, kisses him fiercely and clumsily until he kisses her back. 

They quarrel within the week; Savona is high-strung and irritable because it’s near the anniversary of his parents’ murders, and Tamara’s insides curl with guilt when she thinks how she’s doing this only to spite her mother. Any other motivation seems to be nothing more than self-deception. Before either of them know it, they’re arguing over something ridiculous: Savona’s anger, perhaps, that Tamara would rather go riding with her friends that afternoon than take a walk with him, or Tamara's irritation that he studies Ioret Toarvendar an instant too long as she passes by. 

“Fine!” roars Savona, at last; and “Fine!” Tamara hisses back; and they’re stalking away from each other, both secretly relieved. 

They avoid each other as much as possible for the next few months, conversation awkward and faltering on the rare occasions they must speak, and for once, neither of them instantly flaunts a new flame before the other. This state of affairs lasts until the day Galdran reprimands the Prince and Princess of Renselaeus for a perceived but minor slight before the rest of the Court. Tamara watches as impassively as anyone else, but in the periphery of her vision, she can make out Vidanric and Savona, tense and helpless and so very frightened. 

Pity overwhelms her, and before she can think better of it, she flicks her fan open into Unconditional Support, and then downwards in Indiscretion Before Others. Savona’s face softens with relief, and then with gratitude, before he minds her advice and affects a bland sneer. She might have said more, but the King's eyes flicker towards her, drawn by the movement of her fan, and, panicking, she darts back into the refuge of the crowd. 

On his way out, Galdran stops to smile at Tamara. 

“What lovely hair you have, child,” he says. “Gold suits you.” 

Tamara dimples, curtsies, and fights the urge to go have her hair enchanted back to black at once. Her scalp crawls, and her hair feels....different, somehow. Defiled by the King's regard. 

Savona seeks her out this time, leading her to the ponds at the back of the gardens and kissing her without a word after she nods her permission. _Why_ , she wants to ask, but she isn’t sure she wants to know the answer. 

Savona winds a lock of her hair around his finger, and whispers: "He's right about that much, you know; gold _does_ suit you." With that, the tightness in her chest eases, and her hair no longer seems as filthy as it had just moments ago. 

This time, when they quarrel, it takes them only a matter of days to fall back together again. 

* * *

The Countess of Turlee finally dies on a gray day near the end of winter, the end of a career marked only by dissipation and self-absorption. 

Tamara watches dry-eyed throughout the memorial. Renna hugs her, and even Elenet Khereav relaxes her sanctimonious façade enough to offer a few words of comfort. Little Nimiar Argaliar, a distant, drab relative, tries to offer her sympathies, but by then Tamara can bear no more. She cuts the younger girl off in midsentence and flees to her rooms. 

That’s where Russav finds her, hours later, still curled on her bed fully dressed, but it’s not until he puts his arms around her that she begins to sob. 

The management of the Chamadis estates falls into Tamara’s hands, and, young and inexperienced though she is, she at least can’t make a worse job of it than her mother already has. Without her mother’s indulgences, luxuries, and gambling debts, there’s at least enough to improve the crops they plant, wagering all that the coming harvest would bring enough of a profit to save Chamadis. 

Tamara swallows all her pride and asks Savona if he has any suggestions. 

He doesn’t, and tells her as much, turning it into a joke at his ineptitude since the King is watching their tete-a-tete, but in a matter of days, a volume from the Princess of Renselaeus’ private library about the basic principles of crop management is sitting on her table. 

There’s no note. There doesn’t need to be. 

No one, least of Tamara herself, would have expected her to take to management as she does; her letters to her steward back at Chamadis grow full of animated discussion of what type of soil to use, which fields to leave fallow for the coming seasons. Russav laughs to hear it, but nevertheless, the elaborately boxed gifts he solemnly offers her contain thick treatises on agriculture as often as they do jewels and perfumes. 

She doesn’t thank him. She doesn’t need to. 

* * *

Like most other girls, Tamara spends most of her childhood dreaming of her Flower Day. She would wake up early, of course, and slip her feet into a new pair of jeweled slippers and put a lovely gown with silk roses—no, butterflies!—pinned along the bodice; when she descended the staircase, everyone at Athanarel would gasp in surprise at her astonishing loveliness; her party would be the stuff of Court envy and admirations for years to come. 

Three months before her sixteenth Name Day, Tamara realizes how difficult managing such a marvel really is. There’s no one to plan her Flower Day for her; her mother might have, while she still lived, for propriety’s sake, but now there is no one but Tamara to interview performers and pick out the decorations for the ballroom, to haggle with servers and choose menus. 

By the evening of the party, Tamara is heartily sick of every last detail, and it makes her peevish and unkind. She makes a show of pretending not even to notice Nimair Argaliar, makes everything Trishe says sound even more ridiculous than it already is, and implies there isn’t much to choose from between Renna and her beloved horses. She insists on flirting with every young man there, and then finding a fault on their service; she snaps at Geral for almost spilling his wine on her slippers. 

The King, making a brief appearance, laughs to see her temper. His obvious approval nearly shames her into an apology, but she rallies. Why should she apologize? Isn’t it her Flower Day, after all? Isn’t it meant to be far more perfect than it has been so far? 

Savona leads her away from her conversations and onto the dance floor halfway through the evening, to the clear relief of most of her guests. 

“Not a word,” she warns him, whirling away from him in the dance. 

Savona looks outrageously affronted. “ _Tamara._ I meant only to congratulate you on tonight’s success. You couldn’t have possibly made this dreary ballroom look more inviting. ” 

“A pity the company doesn’t mirror the surroundings, you mean,” she says wryly, sending a glance at him over her shoulder. 

Russav only smiles at her. She sighs. 

”A Flower Day should be more than this,” she confesses. Every detail, every decoration is without flaw, but the Flower Day celebrations she’s watched down in the city and in countryside are full of laughter and friendship and excitement, none of which last for long in Galdran’s Court. “I wish they’d had fresher flowers,” she says by way of an excuse, looking away from him. 

With a shrug, Savona catches hold of her hand again and steps closer to her. She dips into a half-curtsey as the harpist trills. “Then tonight does not celebrate your Flower Day,” he says quietly. 

Tamara laughs. “Doesn’t it?” 

“No. Tonight is for all the good you’ve done Chamadis. In your mother’s day, none of this would have been possible. She’d have done half as much for twice the cost and three times the debt. You, on the other hand,” he twirls her an arm’s length away, “have saved Chamadis through your own efforts.” 

Tamara considers this. She smiles. She dances back to his side, places her hand on his shoulder, and draws him closer. 

In the morning, he sends her bouquet upon bouquet of flowers until they transform her elegant sitting room into a makeshift conservatory. She appreciates the thought, but truly she doesn’t need them anymore. 

* * *

Most of the court knows that Savona’s parents died when he was young, and most have guessed that he isn’t as unaffected by that as he pretends to be. Some, like Geral and Deric and almost certainly Vidanric, have even heard about the treasured memories he has of them: of their laughter, of their love, of the life they might all three have had in Savona, far away from the whims and cruelty of Athanarel. 

But Tamara is the only one who knows that Russav’s greatest regret when it comes to his parents is that he doesn’t have nearly enough memories of them; Tamara the one who wakes him from his nightmares of faceless corpses stretching out their arms to him; Tamara the one who soothes him back to sleep. 

She doesn’t tell anyone, at least. She hopes he doesn’t, either. 

* * *

At times, someone comes to Court poorly prepared; their clothes are out of fashion, or a saddle that's too worn, and even after Tamara laughs at them with the rest of her friends, they don’t replace their hopelessly outdated possessions. Quietly, she makes gentle suggestions in their ears: _take down a hem there, add a flounce, and start a new fashion with my blessing_ , or _visit this tackshop down in the City, tell them Lady Tamara sent you, and they’ll find something presentable for you_. 

It’s been years since she shivered in the gardens in a too-thin rose-colored cloak—these days, Chamadis does so well that she can have anything she pleases without needing to add up sums to make sure she can afford it—but if nothing else, the hapless begin to be boring to mock after she's felt that flicker of empathy for them, and Tamara loathes bores. 

She goes out of her way to make sure Russav never learns of any act of hers that could be considered generous. It rankles to think that he might dole out his love as a reward for her good deeds, or worse, that he or anyone else might suppose that it’s only his faithful adoration that carved a half-decent human being from the virago of Chamadis. 

Despite her best efforts, sometimes he finds out anyway. One day, as they’re sitting by the lake, and Tamara’s guard is sufficiently down that she doesn’t feel the need to drag along any of her other flirts as a distraction, he pushes a curl (dark for the time being) behind her ear and murmurs, “That was kind, what you did for Oranie.” 

She racks her memory, firstly to remember who Oranie is to begin with, and secondly to puzzle out who might have carried the story to Savona. If it’s anyone she can identify, she’ll make sure they pay for it, one way or another. 

“She’s new to Court,” Savona explains. “The other day, she was this close to inadvertently slighting the Baron when you cut her off and started the crowd talking about Trishe‘s riding-party instead. It was kind.” 

Tamara snorts in response. She only does so when they’re alone; the most beautiful and sophisticated lady in Court has a reputation to maintain, after all. “I don’t like to see people dwelling on what latest atrocity Debegri’s perpetrated when they could pay attention to me instead, that’s all. I would have done it for anyone.” 

“I know you would,” Russav says quietly, and she can’t bear to look at him. Sometimes she thinks he supposes her a better person than she really is, and always it terrifies her; one day, sooner or later, he’s bound to find out how badly she can let him down. 

Better to let him go before it's too late. 

* * *

Here is Tamara’s greatest secret: she is always aware that her mother was right, that she is not in fact the greatest beauty in all Athanarel. Her famed good looks are due more to careful preparation, and confidence, and sheer willpower than they are to genuine good looks. So it matters, even if it shouldn’t, that Russav listen when she prattles on about the arrangements she made with her hair, the compliments she received and the imitations of her own styles that she noticed. It matters because she wants him not just to agree but say: Tamara, don’t worry, you’d be just as beautiful with black hair and golden hair or no hair at all. 

She wants him to find her lovely, to find her lovable, when she doubts it herself. 

Here is Russav’s greatest secret: he already does. 

* * *

“I don't intend on lying to you,” Tamara murmurs. Vidanric is due back from Colend in a few days; already she can feel herself losing Russav to his family's determination to oust Galdran from his throne. “We’ll never make each other happy.” 

She can hear Russav’s chuckle, can feel it rumbling through his chest. 

“Of course we won’t,” he tells her solemnly, smoothing down her magnificent hair. “I love you, after all.” 

“I know,” Tamara whispers, and lifts up her face to be kissed once more. 

(They break things off the next day, and Tamara wears a gleaming golden dress to welcome Vidanric Renselaeus home. 

Still. It's Savona's eyes she feels on her as she smiles in the sunshine, Savona's presence she's always conscious of, Savona's voice that cuts through all others when he laughs. 

_Tomorrow,_ she promises herself, _tomorrow I'll tell him._. 

She doesn't.)

**Author's Note:**

> Roughly, this is meant to go up to the end of _A Stranger to Command_ , (glossing over some episodes, such as the Renna fiasco, to avoid spoiling/confusing _Crown Duel_ fans who haven't read the prequel yet--and to those who haven't, it is highly recommended!) but if there are any glaring canon inaccuracies, please let me know!  
> 


End file.
